This story is dedicated to the magic that was “The Cursed Rose”, all of its participants, and the unforgettable Chris and Miriam.

~Rivka Nipper

 

 

 

 

Eden’s Flowers-

 enaissance

                 Chapter 1: Dawn in Eden

 

* * * * *

 

His name at the moment was Syster Knotswell Picketts. He had traveled with the galley at his back for two years, and by the time his feet departed from deck and stepped onto the docks of Notundag, he knew his childhood was over.

The ship was a testament to human cruelty- it had nearly broken his spirit, left his already frail body in a state of consumptive illness that he would never fully recover from, drained him of happiness, and had, like anything else one despises, become and integral part of his life.

The skills he had developed as a painter of saints and icons would be of no more use to him here, he thought. Flat, grayed colors and two-dimensional martyrs had no place in this decadent, urban furnace. He'd let them be a backdrop to his former life, now an ocean and several identities behind him.

Syster couldn’t remember exactly when, or in what city, he had adopted the practice of changing his name to suit each new chapter of his life. When he first left home, and it had seemed a good idea to distance himself from his memories, and since then he had gone through many names; but this one seemed to fit somehow, like a good jacket.

 

 It was a chilly day. The spray from the iron sea was accompanied by biting winds, steely clouds looming overhead, and all was drenched in misty blue light, dismal but exhilarating.

The dock looked and smelled like any other- a portal into a new life for some, and part of a daily routine for others.  The planks were rough, dark, and splintered, running from the piers up to a cobblestone road that led off into the city. There were rusted metal chains, fishing nets. Seamen unloaded wares and crates from ships and the air was filled with their hoarse voices shouting and singing with the sway and pulse of their work. The city herself, sumptuous in depravity and sinful in opulence, began at the end of the cobbled road and disappeared far off into the blue-gray haze.

 

            It was magnificent.

 

Cargo was hauled and shifted to dock, as imports of every kind and shape, coming from all lands imaginable, made their way off deck. Syster could see rolls of carpet, bails of strange furs, bags of spices, sacks of grain, bundles of silk and brightly dyed muslin, even what appeared to be an enormous, spiraled horn from some unheard of sea creature. Coins changed hands and merchants haggled over choice selections.

There was also another type of commerce being conducted by different sorts of men on that dock. It was part of what made this particular city famous, in its way.

Syster could see them out of the corner of his eye, though this sort of cargo could be heard before it was seen: clanking, jangling, rattling, whispering sorrow, coming in lines two across and many in tow, eyes dull and feet plodding ahead towards the heart of the city.

 

Syster shivered, and quickly looked at his feet. They were barely covered by the sad remains leather sandals, and he wondered whether he was afraid to step off the pier onto the road.  -He had not been a slave; the galley master had paid him a steady wage during those two years, though the time that he had spent earning it would never be recounted to anyone yet living. 

He did not count the years as wasted- far from it. He had learned suffering, which is crucial to understanding beauty, and endurance, which is useful anywhere. He had a purse full of gold that was entirely his, and the freedom that comes with financial independence.

He could afford to rent a room, feed and clothe himself, and most importantly, purchase the supplies that he would need to begin his vocation in earnest. He would not have to beg, nor envy any man his wages or bow his head to earn the same. Not anymore.

 

The artist shivered, as the cold finally soaked its way past his cloak and into his thin bones, reminding him to buy some decent weather-sturdy clothes as soon as possible. Syster's prospective employer would of course require his attire be fashionable as well.

 

Thinking of this made Syster fumble in the folds of his cloak. He feared for a moment that he might actually have lost it, but caught and neatly unfolded the letter that he had tucked there after a moment’s search. He ran the soft paper between his thumb and forefinger in a familiar gesture, his hands shaking nervously. For the thousandth time he raised the letter tentatively to his eyes, running over the thin, elegant handwriting that spelled out his future, trying to absorb their content for the sake of dampening the singing of his nerves.

Absently chewing on a knuckle, Syster read the fateful passage near the middle of the page:

"…Our establishment is in need of a working resident capable of restoring plaster frescos, sculptures, and tapestries. We would be honored to accept you for your original artistic abilities as well, and you shall be welcomed as a student of the masters."

            The letter went on to say that room and board would be provided for him, and that he was welcome to partake of the facilities of the institution in question, with the usual ‘privileges of staff’. The wages he would earn would be determined by the quality of his workmanship and by the impression he made on his employer. The letter was signed Lord Mirka Auradre, master of the Rose. 

 

            Syster folded the letter once more.

 It still bore the floral seal of its origin in crimson wax.

            Auradre… Not a name native to these salted shores, but one better known than any other. There was no one on the continent that had not heard of Auradre and his Rose. It was for this man, and his infamous establishment, that Syster had crossed a vast ocean on a slaver galley.

            Once an oversized cathedral, the Rose- that magnificent château of bestial perfection which fed off the pain and pleasure of its paying guests devoted itself to lusts of every kind, and had done so for over a century. No sin was too monstrous, no taboo too scared to breach.

 

            Being the central hub of prosperous slave trade and a pleasure resort of the highest caliber made the Rose popular; the fact that it existed outside the authority of any kingship made it one of the best-trafficked grounds known in any land. The Rose lay at the center of Notundag, a hub for the wheel built up around its walls in order to support its substantial clientele, and to turn over more than a few family fortunes.

 

A sinister place for employment, without a doubt; but the nature of the Rose did not bother Syster much. Morality, in his opinion, had very little to do with Art, and therefore very little to do with him. After all, there was a kind of beauty in suffering, as he had learned. One could find beauty in practically anything, even ugliness. Was it not his job to discover and capture beauty wherever he could? It was the freedom of expression, the allure of wanton escapism and the appreciation and artistic abuse of the body that had drawn him there in the first place.

Syster had no particular interest in participating in these activities himself, despite the letter's congenial offer. Darkness and pain that brought into sharp contrast the exquisite loveliness of the human condition- this was enough. 

Notundag was a city where art and cruelty went hand in hand. And what better place for an artist to thrive than at the teeming heart of the whole range of human emotion?

 

He had been called cruel before himself. Syster's perspective on life had but one focal point; the lens through which he gazed upon the world was Beauty, and it was that which he worshiped, and that which consumed him.

It seemed fitting: A slave to the muse himself, he was going to live amongst slaves of the body.     

And what was more, he thought, the variety of servitude that the Rose embodied held a personal significance that he did not care to think of then.

 

            Syster shut his eyes. There was a moment of hesitation in which he felt that if he simply didn't move, he'd wake up back in his home again before everything had gone wrong, and before the wheels had started turning and he'd run off to make his fortune with the vague expectation that he'd live through it all. But the moment passed, and his feet moved forward and the road seemed to carry him along with its own inertia.

 

Finally, he thought, I'm starting a new life; and this one will be the best. I'll make a name for myself and start working again and never, never have to sleep on another doorstep for as long as I live-

And of course, his lungs took that moment to seize up, and he doubled over sharply.

 

Coughing and retching violently in order to get the wet stagnancy out of his airway, Syster managed to dig out his already stained handkerchief just in time to spit blood-flecked mucus into it. People around him on the docks looked up at him with a mixture of concern and disgust, wondering if what he had was contagious.

Syster folded the cloth again guiltily. There was a faded 'R' embroidered on a corner- it had stood for 'Roxanne'.

 

Deeply embarrassed and flushed in the face, he looked around, afraid that someone would shout at him. He buttoned his cloak up quickly so that the collar made a barrier between his skin and the weather, conveniently hiding his profile from view.

 Clothes- he needed new clothes, and something hot to drink.

He shuddered. Feeling the comforting weight of a full purse made it easier to start waking again, and soon he was once more on his lanky way down the road to seek his fortune.

 

* * * * *

 

Notundag accommodated all sorts. It was not a city that one lived in or came to see; it was an accessory, a convenience for those who were passing through to the main attraction.

In many ways, the city was simply an extension of the Rose itself. The Rose allowed for no competition in entertainment; its many-thorned branches extended into the streets to create small pockets of specialized retreats and lures to serve her purpose.

 

There were inns, eateries, apartments, and bars; dressmakers, cobblers and tailors; shops, jewelers, banks, hatters, thrift shops, open markets for exotic goods and everything else one could think of. (There was no pleasure district. That would have been redundant.)

 

The city streets were clean, and well-paved. There were lamps to light every corner, and surprisingly few pickpockets and knaves. Moreover, Notundag functioned as a kind of neutral ground for races and classes of all types. Even those varieties of beings that were perpetually at war tolerated each other's presences while mingling in the city. The Rose was a well-known garden of sinful delights, and since it was generally assumed that all present were there to partake of the same plentiful fruits, people respected the fact that they were all indulging in a little moral indecency and stayed out of each other's business.

 

The Rose was also an expensive luxury, but once again the city provided well for her travelers. There were bountiful opportunities to make mostly legitimate money in Notundag. The docks alone provided a plentiful source of laborious but uncomplicated work. And of course, pawnshops and lenders waited on every block, ready at any moment to help change gold rings and family heirlooms into ready cash.

The upkeep of the city was paid for mostly by a score of fabulously wealthy and eccentric nobles who had chosen to erect their mansions in the adjacent countryside; high-paying benefactors willing to keep their environment cultured and mostly civilized.

 

Upon overtaking the city at last, Syster found himself visually assaulted by the quantities of signage advertising Notundag's plentiful resources and available establishments.

The walk from the docks was not by any stretch of standards a long one, but it had nonetheless left him bedraggled and ready to collapse.

 His initial excitement at landing had worn off, only to be replaced by weariness and a persistent, wet cough that shook his frail body. The distance to the center of Notundag was far; farther still on foot, and the sky was threatening to burst at the seams and release its downpour any minute.

 

Shivering, he hailed a passing coach. It surprised him that he could afford such a luxury and that it had been so easy for him to accept it as a suitable alternative to enduring the long trudge through the rain.

Not a day ago I was penniless and resigned to suffering through anything in order to achieve my own minor ambitions. Now here I am, riding in a velvet carriage, paid for with my own coin like a noble. So it is possible to get used to anything, he thought.

 

The coachman had not asked him for a destination- it was obvious by the stylized rose emblem emblazoned on the side of the carriage that they had only one route.  Syster counted this as a small miracle, for it had saved him the trial of speaking out loud.

Now, sitting in the dark of the coach, he realized with some consternation that he would undoubtedly be required to speak before his prospective employer… His patron, who was a man renowned for his elevated stature as high nobility and his enormous personal wealth.

 

 He wondered if there was any possibility of conducting the interview in writing, but he doubted that was likely. Syster cursed under his breath, the profanity coming out in a breathy staccato of consonants.

 

 He flinched. This… this was his burden. More than his emaciated figure, more than his poor health, this was a deep wound in his ego. It somehow brought to mind a vivid image of his awkward rural childhood, his impoverished past. A stutter set him apart, isolated him in an elitist world where small talk and eloquence were common coin. The well-bred were notorious for their distaste of physical and social defects.

Syster prayed that Lord Auradre would be able to see past his.

 

Outside, a clap of thunder sounded like cannon shot in the heavens, heralding the first splashes of rain. The artist wondered vaguely what kinds of people would be washed in with the storm, and what it would be like to be fleeing the powers of the Rose instead of seeking them.

 

 

 

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